


The Adventure of the Bog Lion

by chr1711



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cryptozoology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:41:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25126390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chr1711/pseuds/chr1711
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are called to the very outer limits of London to investigate a mysterious creature called the Bog Lion. More to the point, one of the area's green places is under imminent threat.
Kudos: 2





	The Adventure of the Bog Lion

It was late afternoon and I had closed the surgery and headed to my lodgings at 221b Baker Street with the hope of supper. Once there, I picked up the Military Gazette and dozed off over the descriptions of the unending war in the Near East and the Lord High Admiral's call to "bomb them tae hell wi flying dreadnoughts." I'd seen the flying dreadnoughts and they looked a bigger threat to their crews than to the enemy. My papers were untended to; my biography of French fighter ace Rene Fonck was still no more than a pile of notes.  
Holmes awoke me with an excited cry of,  
"Watson! What do you know about cryptozoology?"  
"Nothing, Holmes," I said. "They sent me on a cipher course at Sandhurst."  
"Naturally they did," said Holmes.  
"Yes," I said, baffled. "As a military doctor I was obliged to encipher my handwriting. That wasn't a joke," I said as Holmes groaned. In truth I had fidgeted my way through the training which I saw as merely keeping me from my work.  
"No no," said Holmes. "Not cryptography. Cryptozoology. The study of mysterious animals."  
"Nothing at all, Holmes," I said.  
"Good," my friend said. "I have an appointment for you to go and see Bernard Materlinck, acknowledged expert on such creatures as the yowie, the orang pendek, and the bog lion."  
"I don't believe that one," I said. "And I've got to go where?"  
"Oh, the Natural History Museum," said Holmes. "In half an hour."  
"You love me being a military gent, don't you," I said bitterly. "Used to taking orders. You utter, utter c-"  
My words were drowned out by the whistle of a steam-cab from the street below.  
"I meanwhile," said Holmes, "shall be in the Bog."  
"I can give you a tincture that may help," I said.  
"No no," said Holmes. "The Bog of Seething. Like the Slough of Despond but more fun. It's between Surbiton and Thames Ditton.  
"Find out all you can about the Bog Lion," he said. "And get the gentleman to buy you dinner, there's a good boy. I'll see you at the Blessed Lamb in Seething tonight at eight."  
"And no," he said as he swept out, "I am not a c-"  
His words were lost in the slapped-child howl of a steam-clown in the street outside. I wished Holmes would let me close the window.

Alighting from the Tube at South Ken I allowed myself a moment to admire Waterhouse's elegant museum with its scarlet towers and bands of green brick. Then I plunged into the half-lit corridors lined with glass cases, skeletons, stuffed animals staring accusingly with the words HOW COULD YOU? forever on their lips.  
When I entered Materlinck's office my first sight was of the fearsome black-and-white striped head of a badger behind a desk. Brock was wearing a suit and looked otherwise human.  
"Good morning," the creature said. I stood, astonished.  
Then a human head popped out beside it. Bushy eyebrows and mutton-chop whiskers, all in grey.  
"Doctor Materlinck?" I asked.  
"The same," said this individual, moving sideways in a way I could not fathom at first. Materlinck spun round the desk in his wheelchair and extended a hand. I shook it. It was cold. I suspected some kind of neural debility. His office was a place of dark wood frames, paintings of frogs and newts and salamanders, a splendid bookcase of leather-bound volumes, and a glass case. I didn't see its green occupant until it moved.  
"And you will be Doctor Watson," Materlinck said. "Mister Holmes is an old friend of mine." His good-natured voice held the trace of an accent. "We met in Amsterdam. He was … sampling the cafes. Coffee? Tea? Absinthe?"  
"I'd love some tea," I said. "Milk, no sugar."  
"I'll get it," said a woman's voice. I hadn't noticed its owner; a dark-haired woman standing by the office's inner door. Dark-haired and dressed in dark colours: teal, purple, black. "I'm Jeanne Materlinck, Bernard's sister. I do the heavy lifting."  
"She does, you know," said Bernard. "Thank you, Jeanne dear. Now while we await tea let me ask you - have you heard of the Bog lion?"  
"Only this morning," I said, "when Holmes mentioned it. Sounds rather fearsome to me."  
"Oh it is," Bernard said, "but mainly if you're a small amphibian.  
"It is a creature supposedly found in temperate wetlands," he went on. "A terror to the small and green, the very King of amphibians, and so it is named the lion of the Bog."  
He showed me a drawing done by skilful hand but not, I suspected, from life. A mottled lizard-like creature was making a good dinner of a frog. Jeanne returned with the tea: a good blend.  
"And the Bog Lion," said Materlinck, "is also very, very rare, and my sister here believes they may be found in the Bog of Seething."  
"And that is what my friend wishes to investigate?" I said. Materlinck nodded.  
"It was my sister who approached Mister Holmes," he said, "asking for his help. She will accompany you to the Blessed Lamb in Seething. You will be fed and watered on our account."  
"My very great honour, madame," I told her.

I found the Blessed Lamb a pleasant hostelry despite some disquieting posters - "Hatfield, twinned with Mirenburg," read one and while I could not disagree with the sentiment, the horrifying business in Mirenburg was only twelve years in the past. That once fair city was now a wasteland with canals full of radioactive sludge.  
We had arrived in time for dinner and partook of an excellent tender loin of pork, glazed parsnips, green beans, potatoes St Cyr, and a bottle or two of Bordeaux. I was pleased to note the lady could put it away.  
"I have, as you say in England, ze 'ollow legs," she said.  
Hollow legs struck a chord somewhere. The kind of chord that sobs and wails outside your lodgings in central London and then drifts around a corner down in boggy Surrey. I had heard it as we climbed out of the cab.  
Jeanne told me that the area of Seething Bog was under threat from developers who wanted to drain it and build 'luxury apartments' on the site.  
"But they cannot!" exclaimed Jeanne, draining her glass of red. "If this is the home of the elusive Bog-lion then they must not be allowed to disturb the bog!"  
"I agree," said a newcomer, leaning over our table. He was dressed in tweed and a strange fore-and-aft cap. In the low light it took me a few seconds to recognise the fellow as Holmes. He had someone else with him: a stout woman in her late forties or older, dressed in a vintage bonnet and a bottle-green dress, her cheeks powdered, her greying blonde hair tied back.  
"'ullo, dearies," she said. "I'm Bessie Murr. I lives local."  
"Mrs Murr is our guide," Holmes said. "She has kindly agreed to take us into the bog tonight and look for the bog lion."  
"It's getting dark already," I said.  
"The bog lion is a creature of the dusk," said Jeanne. "It builds up energy during the day and hunts at nightfall."  
"Like a bat," I said.  
"Aye," said Bessie. "Like a bat."

When we stepped outside the Blessed Lamb and onto the Brighton Road I looked across and saw a small coaling station where our cab had fuelled up after dropping us off. The cab was long gone. I supposed its driver had taken his leave of his fellows in the shelter and headed back to London.  
But among the small rank of local cabs (a sage and lemon livery and the words SEETHING CABS: WE SEETHE WITH THE BEST OF 'EM) I spotted the lonely figure of a steam-clown, his rear-mounted water port open and a four-inch hose filling his legs with water. In the clear night I could hear him sob intermittently. I had some sympathy; not all can show courage in the face of the enema. I looked closely at the clown's markings - the turned down mouth, the red and blue suit painted on its bulbous body, and moreover the number 2719 on its side.  
"Yes, Watson," said Holmes. "A Class 27 clown, but the very same one that was roaming Baker Street. It cannot have walked here in that time. So it hitched a ride, but with whom?"  
"And what does it want, Mister Holmes?" said Jeanne. I couldn't answer. What do steam-clowns want? Do they want anything?  
They had been in London for a few years now and nobody seemed to know. They came and went like human servants, carrying, scurrying; weeping. In some quarters, like Shoreditch and Bow, the wailing of steam-clowns had grown pervasive until the air rang with it day and night. Yet none claimed ownership, nor credit for creating the things. It was said also that the crying and sobbing was a ploy. You approached the thing, believing the wretch could do you no harm, and then bang, you were dead.  
"That," Holmes said, "is the question. Now, to the bog."  
The setting sun had set the western sky on fire and illuminated the bog. A mile by half a mile of dark green tussocks dotted with noxious pools of black, sullen water.  
There were hoardings along the road facing away from the bog. ST ENCH, I read, DEVELOPMENT OF LUXURY FLATS. The hoardings showed supposed luxury living and a riverside view which would be ruined by St Ench if they got their hands on it. Much was made of the development company's red and blue livery.  
Red and blue, I thought. Where have I seen that before, recently?  
"Yes, Watson," said Holmes. "I think we know the identity of our pursuer. Interesting, Watson. Someone has made a pet of friend steam-clown."  
Mrs Murr led us along half-visible paths between the dark, noxious pools. I attempted to look within her large wicker basket but I could make nothing out and she was not forthcoming. She winked at me bafflingly.  
"This is the place," Bessie said suddenly, "let's give it a go."  
Far away, at the road, I could see something red and blue lumbering towards us.  
Mrs Murr crouched and opened her wicker box. Something green hopped up onto her hand. It turned to face me: a tiny frog, no more than two inches in length. It raised a forefoot, presented two fingers at me, poked out its tongue and hopped lustily away, landing on a tussock of grass. Other frogs followed.  
Something tugged at my memory. That same gesture, a frog in a conservatory somewhere in my late childhood. I looked closely at Mrs Murr.  
"Aun --" I began.  
Mrs Murr put a finger to her lips and winked.  
"This'll flush him out," she told us all. "The bog lion. I has an ology in this. We all has an ology and this is my pet ology."  
The steam-clown was clanking nearer; he was accompanied by a red-faced man in a black hat and coat of antique cut. I recognised the type if not the individual. So did Holmes, frowning.  
As they came closer the man said,  
"I am arresting you all for trespass upon private property. And you, Madame Jeanne Materlinck, I am arresting you for the murder of the director of St Ench, Sir Ranulph Lyle-Tate."  
"I see," said Holmes. The rest of us remained silent.  
The steam-clown had begun to sob. I noticed that its feet had sunk into the mire and the rest of it was following shortly.  
"It was no murder," said Jeanne. "He attacked me. I pushed him off and he fell into the bog. I could not rescue him. His body lies somewhere here, in the depths, and will not be found."  
"We shall see about that," said the man.  
"Indeed we shall," said Jeanne. "St Ench pretends their former director was a benefactor and a friend to all. But he was as vile as the company he founded; a man who preyed on men, women and children without distinction. He is no loss to the world."  
"I beg your pardon sir," said Holmes. My friend had taken lessons from a hotel doorman and could make sir sound incredibly insulting. "May I know whom I am addressing."  
"Victor Bondar," said the entity. "Security, St Ench Homes."  
"So you're not even a policeman," said Holmes. "You heard the lady. It was an accident, and I will vouch for her."  
The clown, sobbing louder now, was up to its knees. Apparently realising this, it gestured to its legs.  
"You are all fuc-" it began.  
"NOT IN FRONT OF MY AUNT!" I exclaimed, drawing my service revolver. At that moment something long, green and sinuous bounded between us and leapt unerringly for the steam-clown's groin, clamping its jaws round the complicated leather frill. The steam-clown shrieked, the sound of a freight train entering a tunnel. The creature hung suspended. Clear water gushed from beneath it but it held on.  
"The bog lion," said Aunty Muriel with deep satisfaction.  
The steam-clown was shrieking but it had stopped sinking. The amount of water jetting from its torn valve was reducing its weight and it was pulling itself slowly out.  
"Put your gun away," Bondar said. "You'll be destroying company property."  
"Property?" said Holmes icily. I looked away from the shrieking steam-clown and at him.  
"I was under the impression that slavery had been abolished in these kingdoms?" Holmes went on. "Or am I wrong that 2719 there used to be a human being?"  
He approached the now sobbing steam-clown. The bog lion had let go and was sniffing the marsh in a suspiciously canine fashion. I suspected it was some kind of terrier, under the green camouflage coat and curious mask upon it.  
"Who are you?" Holmes said gently. "Were you once human?"  
The clown nodded stiffly.  
"Did they … capture you?" he asked.  
The creature nodded again.  
"Can you speak?"  
The clown moaned something that sounded like "no, no."  
"I am sure he could," I said to Holmes, "given time."  
The detective nodded.  
"The press will hear about this," Jeanne said. "Not only the behaviour of Lyle-Tate but also the fate of the steam-clowns. The bog will stand and not be built on. You notice that the good Doctor is no longer pointing his gun at the poor clown."  
No, it was true; I had Bondar in my sights. We set off for the road.

"A remarkable adventure," Holmes said some days later at number 221b. "Did you really not know your Aunt Muriel worked at the Natural History Museum? Or that she had a Jack Russell terrier?"  
"No, Holmes," I said. "But Jack enjoyed playing the part of a Bog Lion. And to think that was her office! My family, eh! And what of poor Jeanne Materlinck?"  
"I sense the concern in your voice, Watson," he said. "But you cannot care for all. She went to the Press with the tale, as she promised. Look for yourself, Watson," he said, handing me the evening paper.  
I did. A photograph of Jeanne and the headline SLAVERY AND VENGEANCE – LYLE-TATE "A MONSTER" CLAIMS MADAME MATERLINCK. Further down the page there was a sidebar reading STEAM-CLOWN: IS IT A MAN AND A BROTHER?  
Some good might come of it then.  
As I lay abed that night, half dreaming of Mme Materlinck's sad smile, I recalled something else that had happened on the bog.  
When we reached the road, where two police inspectors from the station at Surbiton waited for Bondar, I turned to look across the bog, its surface crimson and black in the setting sun. In the middle of the dark expanse I thought I saw something low-set, sinuous and glistening, staring at us with hungry eyes. Then it turned and, quick as a flash, dived into a dark pool and was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> The Seething Bog bit of this story is sadly true, with the Thames Ditton filter beds - on the border of London and Surrey - having been stripped of its vegetation. It is possible (July 2020) that actual building will be stopped, but the ecosystem has gone.


End file.
